


The Fifth Star

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Chicago (City), Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Organized Crime, Slice of Life, aftermath of kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jonny had assured his people in City Hall that he intended to take care of this quietly, but that was over a week ago. That was before Banion had looked up from where he'd been pretending to study the dessert menu and said, "You'll need to use the service entrance. On the way out, I mean. The Kid's seen better days."Fill for the gethawksdeep prompt: "A mob fic where Jonny is the boss and Kaner is his underboss. They built the Chicago mob scene from the ground up as friends. But after Kaner is taken and almost killed by a rival, Jonny starts to see Pat as more than just a business partner."
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 13
Kudos: 99
Collections: Anonymous





	1. The Meet

* * *

The meet's in neutral territory, a vast, kindly-lit hotel "brasserie" in the Loop that's survived largely thanks to a captive market—it's open late seven days a week, a rarity in this part of the business district—and tacking on trendy cocktails and apps to a comfort food menu that is loosely French and firmly ensconced in the 1950s. It's the kind of place where the staff turns over by the season and the patronage runs mainly to tourists and business travellers. At half-past nine on a frigid Wednesday in January, Jonny's betting it's mainly the latter. 

It's a smart move. He'll grant them that. A diamond-grit bit of savvy in the massive shitstorm of a mistake that was taking Kaner in the first place.

Here, they're just another table of near-strangers, haggard faces in well-tailored suits keeping up the pretense of civility after a long day. No one there to wonder why Jonathan Toews, heir to the legendary _Sans Coeur_ , known entrepreneur and philanthropist—and rumored head of Fifth Star Alliance—is breaking bread with the likes of Mia Akulova, Zip Pochetti and Greg "Bonesaw" Banion. Nothing strange about stilted small talk giving way to shop talk after the first round of drinks. Nothing new when negotiations get a little heated, the language less polite. 

If their waitress notices Akulova slipping him a keycard when he excuses himself to use the restroom, she doesn't bat an eye, just points Jonny towards the connecting door into the hotel lobby. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, forces himself into a casual stroll. Forces himself to breathe deeply before he screams or punches something.

_If they've done any permanent damage…_

Jonny had assured his people in City Hall that he intended to take care of this quietly, but that was over a week ago. That was before Banion had looked up from where he'd been pretending to study the dessert menu and said, "You'll need to use the service entrance. On the way out, I mean. The Kid's seen better days." 

The lobby is all bamboo floors and beige walls with accents of walnut, blue, and gold, decoratively a far cry—and several decades' worth of corporate-mandated upgrades, Jonny suspects—from the restaurant.

He blinks, just another buzzed suit whose eyes need a moment to adjust, and sizes up the personnel. Two women behind the front desk, one of whom looks vaguely familiar. Bell Captain. Valet attendant. Cleaner who may or may not be an actual cleaner lurking by the passage that must lead to the elevators.

"Can I help—" the not-familiar woman begins, but Jonny holds up the keycard and forestalls her with his best prairie smile.

"All set, thanks," he says, holding up the keycard, and heads towards the passage. "Have a good night."

"Thank you, Sir. And to you as well."

The rest of them go back to their business, don't acknowledge him except to watch him pass out of the corners of their eyes. 

The area around the bank of elevators is brightly lit and deserted. There are six cars and at least three security cams that Jonny can see. A brass plaque beside the nearest car is engraved with a downward arrow and reads: PUBLIC RESTROOMS LL & PARKING ONLY

Jonny grimly jabs the call button with his thumb, thinking, _Hang on, Peeks, I'm coming._

* * *


	2. The Rescue

The floors are wet, as advised by a yellow sandwich board in the restroom corridor. A cleaning cart is partially blocking the Ladies' room. Jonny can hear taps running, sees water slowly seeping under the door and spreading across the tile. He doesn't bother knocking, just shoves the cart aside and pushes his way in.

"Kaner?"

They've stashed him in the very last stall, locked from the inside. Jonny has to haul himself up and over as he can't fit under the door—all of this, he's positive, Pochetti's sick idea of a joke. He tries to keep his expression neutral as he frees Kaner's wrists and elbows, cuts the strap binding them to his ankles, and helps him sit up.

He's clearly stiff, but he's got all ten fingers— _thank god_ —and his nails are no worse than usual. No arms hanging out of their sockets. Both kneecaps intact. He's not actively bleeding anywhere that Jonny can see or grabbing for his balls or his ribs. No, all the obvious damage is concentrated on Kaner's face.

His left eye is swollen shut, that whole side sporting every sickening shade on the contusion rainbow, plus blood crusted around his ear. Busted nose, busted lips split wide and painful-looking around a ball gag, eyebrows… Fucking hell _all_ the hair on his face gone, hacked off with a dull razor by the looks of it.

Furious, Jonny plucks the cap off Kaner's head. There's a ragged shorn strip, at least a couple inches wide, running down the middle. The hair that's left is greasy and sour-smelling, the locks matted together in places with blood.

Jonny bites back a curse as Kaner snatches the cap back, then takes a deep breath and reaches for the buckle on the gag.

"There will be consequences," he assures Kaner. "For them. For their children. For their fucking _grandkids_."

Kaner blinks his one good eye at him. 

"No kids," he rasps as soon as the gag is out, giving a little shake of his head. "Rules."

"Fuck the rules. Peeks, they can't—" He breaks off as Kaner grabs his wrist, hard, and tugs. He manages to catch his balance before crashing down onto his lap, winds up looming awkwardly over him with legs spread and one hip jammed against the toilet paper dispenser.

It's a nightmare version of one of Jonny's illicit fantasies, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He's been living off rage and despair for weeks now; he doesn't know if he can handle shame as well. 

When he opens them, Kaner's looking up at him, the one clear blue eye steady and bright in his ruined face. 

"Fine," Jonny says gruffly. "Rules. Now let's go. Can you walk?"

Kaner shrugs as if to say "we'll find out" and lets Jonny help him up from the toilet. He clings to the purse hook while Jonny cuts the straps off his ankles, shuffles about three steps on his own before clutching for his arm. Jonny props him against a hand dryer while he shuts off all the taps—he can't tell, but he thinks Kaner might be laughing at him—then gets an arm around his waist and pulls him into a proper support carry.

The keycard gets them through two "Employee Access Only" doors and out into a loading bay reeking of tobacco and marijuana. 

"Sorry, no Jules tonight. Had to come alone. I'm parked over on Wells. You wanna wait here while I—"

Kaner growls, tightening his arm around Jonny's neck. And yeah, no, that's a dumb fucking idea. Jonny's not planning on letting Kaner out of his sight until sometime next decade, maybe, when he's got one of those tracking chips embedded under his skin. Maybe not even then.

He snugs Kaner more firmly against his side, bows his head to the bitter wind, and sets off down the alley.

* * *


	3. The Drive

Kaner doesn't speak until they're across the river. Jonny's driven past where he'd normally turn for either of their buildings and is heading north, checking his console for any delays on the Drive.

"Why'm I here?"

"Taking you to the house. Gotta lay low for a bit, have Paulie check you over." _Put as much distance as possible between you and those doomed motherfuckers._

Kaner makes a sort of gurgling sound, and Jonny glances over once he's stopped at a red light. Kaner's got his nose padded out with tampons from the glove box stash—Knighter started it, but these days Jules is just as adamant that all the fleet are stocked; he swears by them for all manner of emergencies—and the cap pulled down low over the horror show on his head.

"What? You think you have a choice here? Because—"

"Not _here_ here." Kaner lolls his head towards the window, gesturing at the traffic, then twists in his seat, presumably so he can actually see Jonny. "Here alive."

It's a good thing the light turns green then, because Jonny has an excuse to look away. Jaw clenched, he whips out around the panel truck ahead of him and accelerates. 

"I wouldn't do it, Jonny. No matter what they—"

"Not now, Kaner."

"I was no use to them anymore, so why—"

"Not now, I said. You need to rest."

"Jon."

"Shut up."

" _Jon,_ What did you give—"

Jonny lays on the horn, doesn't let up until he's got a lane well to himself and Kaner's turned back towards the window. 

_Nothing that matters,_ he tells himself. _Nothing I wouldn't give again._

Kaner humors him nearly all the way to Evanston. But as they approach the curves around the cemetery—Jonny splitting his attention between getting them safely back to the house and trying not to remember all those times they'd spent getting high and hanging out around here back in grad school, watching movies, roaming the lakefront parks, plotting their empire in coffee shops and taquerias—he shivers, sits up very straight in his seat, then clears his throat.

"Just tell me you didn't cut them in on the new deal for the 606."

Jonny concentrates on accelerating out of the curve. "I did not cut them in on the new deal for the 606."

"Or Walton Towers?"

"Nor Walton Towers."

"Influence then. Your new pals at City Hall. Or, no—" Kaner thumps a fist on the dash. "Old school, maybe. The unions. C'mon, Jonny, tell me you didn't sell our buddies in the CFL out to that box of shitbiscuits."

"No fucking way. Have you met me?" That nets him a pause, a glorious, drawn-out affair that he can't really appreciate because it takes so much effort on Kaner's part to turn towards him again.

"The Winnipeg connect?"

"Nope."

"Rockford? Montréal?"

"No, and _non_."

Kaner starts coughing. It's painful sounding to the point where Jonny's scanning the sides of the road for places to pull over when Kaner rallies, saying, "Then…shit, Jonny, was it the talent?"

"What talent?"

"Since they couldn't have me, I mean?" Kaner shrugs. Motherfucking shrugs, damaged and (surely) scared yet still so assured of his absolute worth. It pisses Jonny off, yet is also a massive part of why he loves him. Go fucking figure.

"Stromer?" Kaner presses. "Saader? Breadman?"

"Jesus, Kaner, you know I'd never—"

"No, no, for sure. Sorry. It's just…" Kaner bows his head, words slurring now. "Donunnnerstand 'mnot…"

"You are," Jonny says, then, softly, as Kaner appears to have passed out, "and hang in there, bud. Can't do this without you."

It's a damn lie though. He can. He always could. He just doesn't want to.

* * *


	4. The Lions

For the first time in his life, Jonny takes it easy through the ravines. Kaner keeps fading in and out, and he doesn't know whether it's down to drugs, a head injury, or plain old exhaustion. He contacts Paulie, tells him what he knows, but when Paulie asks if they should have a gurney waiting, he goes with his gut and says no. 

"Just…a chair, yeah? I'll bring him to the coach house." _Fewer eyes the better_ goes unsaid. It's less for security than Kaner's pride, which he knows Paulie will understand. 

"You got it," Paulie says, as cool and steady as ever. Jonny's about to end the call when he hears a sharp inhale, a rushed, "…but, ah, Boss?"

"What's up?"

"The staff, family. They've been worried. Can I at least tell them the Kid's still with us?"

Jonny glances over. Kaner's squirming against his seatbelt strap, tongue lolling out of his open mouth. He looks so fucking young like this, reminds Jonny of nights long ago. Kaner had always had the knack for picking the wrong bar, the wrong fight. 

_Some would say he backed the wrong guy, too._

Jonny grips the wheel, refocusing on the winding road. "Yep," he says firmly. "Tell 'em the Kid's coming home." 

It's no good driving guilty. He can't afford that shit right now, just needs to concentrate on getting them back to the house. He can't afford all these damn memories, Kaner at eighteen, twenty, twenty-three…

Whip-smart yet so fucking naïve—brash in his confidence that what he didn't know couldn't possibly matter, that the world would mold itself to his grasp. Seemingly put in Jonny's path to test him: the depths of his patience, the height of his ambition, his capacity to trust someone who wasn't blood.

"And what color are his eyes, _mon cher lapin_?" his mother had once asked. 

Teasing him, he now knows, because he must have mentioned Kaner one too many times that first year. But back then he'd just been flustered because he hadn't known—hadn't even noticed—something so basic about the first real friend he'd had since coming to the States. 

He'd confronted Kaner the next day at Robert Crown, spun him around and pinned him against the boards with no explanation, studying his face.

And he'd seen that Kaner's eyes were all the colors of the lake, the noonday sky, the pond ice of his youth; seen that they widened under Jonny's scrutiny, then held steady. He'd realized how much he _liked_ looking, cheeks growing warm as he admitted to himself that there was something there, an undeniable spark—an ongoing question, a challenge, an anticipatory joy—that occurred whenever they were face to face with no one in between. 

He'd looked and looked, letting the warmth fill his belly until the shouts from the other guys for him to quit being a bully had broken the spell. But in the end he'd convinced himself that whatever he felt looking at Kaner was nothing compared to what they'd be able to accomplish if they stood back to back or side by side, so he'd pushed that shit way down deep and started paying more attention to how he talked about Kaner. Played up the big brother act, though there was less than a year between them. Put up walls. Learned to look away.

Jonny's pulled from his memories by Kaner's mumbling.

"…in da twenny-first century, do bettah than anybody you see do it, no one man sh'd'ave all that powah…"

"What's that?" It takes him another moment to recognize that Kaner's not really talking to him, is just singing to himself. Butchering Kanye, it sounds like. _Nothing new there, though,_ he thinks fondly.

Then, just as Jonny slows and flicks on the turn signal, Kaner bangs a fist on the window. 

"My lions!" he crows, turning towards Jonny as much as his seatbelt allows. It comes out more like "lionths," his lisp more pronounced by his swollen mouth. "Gods over kings, 'member?"

He's talking, Jonny realizes, about the ridiculous statues that flank the entrance gate. Technically they are griffins, but "lions" are what Kaner had seen that first time they'd driven past. He'd remarked that that's the sort of place they should aim for. One day. When they were running the show. Because lions were kings of the jungle, and guess who lives in a place guarded by kings?

The answer, Jonny now thinks, is _people with too much to lose,_ but all he says is, "Damn right I do," as the gate swings open. "Hang in there, Peeks. Paulie's meeting us at the coach house."

"Lions," Kaner repeats. Softly now. Subdued. "Lions for me. I thought maybe…"

Jonny braces himself for the next words, but they never come. 

Kaner slumps back in his seat and pulls at the cap, like he wishes he could cover his whole face. Apart from his breathing, he's silent as Jonny maneuvers the SUV through the gates and off the main drive onto the narrow gravel track that leads around the back of the coach house. 

The lights are on and one of the bay doors is open. Jonny pulls inside and stops the engine. He spots Paulie waiting with a wheelchair, his typical sports casual swapped for scrubs … then spots the flaw in their plan. The main house floor is above ground level; from the garage bays, it is five concrete steps up to the connecting door. Between the two of them they could manage, but it'd be awkward, rough going. Jonny doesn't want Kaner jostled any more than necessary.

"Meet me at the top," he says as he gets out and walks around to the passenger door. "Be easier if I carried him."

Paulie looks like he might have his own opinions about that, but he wisely keeps them to himself. 

Kaner groans, but doesn't protest when Jonny crouches by the open passenger door and orders him to climb on his back. 

"Think of all the times you've wanted to strangle me, yeah? Free pass tonight. Shot at being the big boss."

The joke is mostly for Paulie's benefit. Or maybe it's for his own, to prove that he _can_ , that this isn't as serious as it feels. Kaner's the only one who laughs, though, a damp gurgle and sigh as he molds himself to Jonny's back and drapes his arms over his shoulders.

"Never," he murmurs. "No one man…s'no good, Jon, one lion all alone." 

Jonny closes his eyes, glad he's facing away from Paulie as he gets his arms under Kaner's thighs, leans forward and straightens up. There's a sudden tightness in his chest and throat, a blooming ache in his gut that's nothing to do with worry or the added weight.

As soon as he's got Kaner settled in the chair and Paulie's assurances that he can take it from here, will keep Jonny informed, Jonny excuses himself and heads up to the main house on foot, grateful for the cold air numbing his face.

He needs a shower, wants a drink—preferably a double—but first he's got shit to do. Business. Business, first and always.

 _And how's that working out for you?_

This time the voice in his head sounds more like Kaner's than his own.

* * *


	5. The Hidden Agenda

Jonny's just gotten off the phone with Saader when there's a knock on the office door. 

"Come in," he calls, pushing off from the desk and swiveling his chair towards the door.

It's Paulie, a fleece hoodie thrown over his scrubs and still in his crocs, which is how Jonny knows something is wrong. Paulie's usually fussy about indoor vs. outdoor footwear.

"What is it?" 

"He's stable, sleeping now." Paulie closes the door behind him. "Running some blood tests, and I've got him on fluids. He was pretty dehydrated, can't remember the last time he took a piss. Can't remember much, actually, but that may change once whatever shit they had him on is out of his system. Other than that—" Paulie shoves his hands in his pockets. "—physically speaking, it's nothing time won't heal. Cuts and bruises, mostly, plus a ruptured eardrum."

"Jesus _christ_." Jonny stands up, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel a scorcher of a headache coming on. "Could have told me all that over the phone. Why're you—"

"Found this." Paulie cuts in, pulling something out of his pocket. He approaches, holding it out on his palm so Jonny can see.

It's a mini flash drive, slim and gunmetal grey, much like the one that had arrived at Jonny's condo back in December. He stares at it with loathing, willing himself to calm down. Telling himself, _Kaner's back, Kaner's safe. Can't get any worse._

"Where?"

"In his…his clothes. Was going over everything before I bagged it, just in case, taking some trace samples."

"And that, what, fell out of a pocket?" Jonny knows Kaner was pretty out of it on the drive, but if his captors had wanted him to pass on some sort of parting message or—god help them—additional demands, surely he would've mentioned it. 

Paulie shakes his head. "No. Sewn into the waistband of his briefs, at the back. Probably did it while he was out, or…" He shrugs, avoiding Jonny's eyes. "Either way, doubt he knew it was there." 

_What the fuck_ Jonny thinks, plucking the drive from Paulie's hand. It's _exactly_ like the one that had arrived back in December. That one had been in an envelope, slipped in with his dry cleaning. So much menace in such a tiny object; Jonny will take to his grave that he'd lost a good quarter-hour to a panic attack, shaking and sweating on his bedroom floor, before he'd alerted his lieutenants. 

"Was worried it might be a bug or a tracker at first," Paulie goes on, "but when I got it out and saw this… It's your call, Boss, but if there's anything on here that might be relevant, medically speaking, or in terms of helping him recover, I thought I—"

"No, of course," Jonny cuts in, striding over to the old air-gapped desktop. Stromer's scans hadn't turned up anything fishy on the first flash drive, but he's not taking any chances. And Paulie's right. Kaner's health comes before his pride. "Grab the chair, bring 'er on over." 

Jonny boots up the machine and types in his password, inserts the drive and initiates a scan, then gestures for Paulie to have a seat in front of the monitor. When he hesitates, Jonny claps him on the shoulder.

"Go on, Doc. Sit. I've been on my ass most of the day." Truth is, while Jonny's relieved to have an excuse not to watch alone, he doesn't trust his own face right now. He takes up position behind the chair, just off Paulie's right shoulder, and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for the scan to finish.

_Maybe it's just another copy of the ransom vid. Token of good faith and all, reminder that so long as I keep my end of the bargain, the original will be destroyed, and no one else will ever see Kaner like that, naked and glassy-eyed, strung out on god-knows-what…_

"Here goes," Paulie mutters once the scan is complete. The drive is clean, just like before, and contains a single folder. This one, however, holds multiple video files instead of just the one. There are eight of them, the filenames strings of numbers. It takes Jonny a moment to realize that they are timestamps, dating back to December 14th, the night Kaner was taken.

_Shit._

"Boss?" Paulie glances up over his shoulder. 

"Start at the top." Jonny clenches his hands into fists, hidden in his armpits, and forces himself to keep breathing.

By the time they're through, Paulie's livid, shoulders tensed and muttering to himself as he jots down some notes, and Jonny wants to put a fist—both fists—through the wall. The only thing that's stopping him are the nagging questions of who wanted them to see this and, above all, _why_. 

Because this? This sheds a whole new light on things, explains so many of the details that have been puzzling Jonny: the time lag between Kaner's disappearance and any contact from his captors; Akulova's involvement, her disproportionate influence on the terms when all the muscle and spite reeked of Banion and Pochetti; the undue interest from City Hall.

It also breaks Jonny's heart, realizing how close he'd come to losing Kaner. Realizing that, if only he'd been more honest back in the day, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe Kaner would have been where he belonged, at Jonny's side, instead of some toxic Gold Coast version of an after-party, looking for a little something on the DL to ease the loneliness of the holidays. 

_Maybe, if you'd been braver, he wouldn't have been a target to begin with, wouldn't have ever felt he had something to hide._

Paulie stands suddenly, clearing his throat. "I'm betting scopolamine, maybe mixed with something else. Whatever it was, he had a bad reaction. I'm going to need to keep him for a few days, run some additional—"

"Whatever you need," Jonny rasps. He doesn't recognize his own voice right now, can't remember how to unclench his fingers. "But, Doc? When you're done with his clothes, don't wash 'em. I want to run them by the Saints."

"Understood." Paulie turns finally, then lifts his eyes. There's no pity there, nor blame, just sheer outrage—plus a healthy dose, Jonny would wager, of the same horror he's feeling. He'll never be able to un-see Kaner half out of his mind, lost in fear and unknowable hallucinations, bashing his head against the bathroom walls, the sink, the mirror, then hacking at himself with the shards. Never be able to un-know that, the physical damage he'd witnessed? Most of it had been inflicted by Kaner himself, and he doesn't remember.

"And while it goes against my professional vows," Paulie adds, "I hope they tear whoever's responsible for dosing him to fucking shreds."

* * *


End file.
